“Yeah,” I say, returning to the kitchen for a much-needed sip of wine.
“So anyway,” April says, her tone lightening suddenly, dramatically. “Do you need help with those skewers? Just went shopping and our fruit bowl is bountiful—I could run some over?”
“Thanks,” I say. “But too much effort. I think I’ll just pick something up in the morning.”
“You sure?” she asks.
“I’m sure,” I say.
“Okay,” April says. “But no Oreos.”
“No Oreos,” I repeat, wondering how I could have been so stressed, even for a moment, about something as trivial as a preschool snack.
6
Valerie
The view outside Charlie’s third-floor room at Shriners is a pleasant one, overlooking a courtyard planted with pink and white hydrangeas, but Valerie prefers to keep the blinds drawn, the thin northern exposure allowing virtually no light to work its way through the plastic slats. As a result, she quickly loses track of day and night, in a way that is a bittersweet reminder of Charlie’s infancy, when all she wanted to do was be near him and take care of his every need. But now, she can only watch helplessly as he endures dressing changes while bags of fluids drip nutrients, electrolytes, and painkillers into his veins. The hours pass by slowly, punctuated only by Dr. Russo’s twice-daily rounds and the endless cycle of nurses, social workers, and hospital staff, most of whom come for Charlie, a few to check on her, some simply to empty the wastebaskets, bring meals, or mop the floors.
Valerie refuses to sleep on the stainless-steel cot that one of the many nameless, faceless nurses wheeled in for her, its pilled white sheets and thin blue blanket stretched and neatly tucked into the sides. Instead, she stays put on the wooden rocker near Charlie’s bed, where she watches his narrow chest rising and falling, the flutter of his eyelids, the smile that sometimes appears in his sleep. Every once in a while, despite her best efforts to stay alert, she dozes for a few minutes, sometimes longer, always awaking with a start, reliving the call from Romy, realizing once again that her nightmare is real. Charlie is still too drugged to fully understand what has happened, and Valerie both dreads and prays for the moment she will explain everything to him.
On the fourth or fifth day, Valerie’s mother, Rosemary, returns from Sarasota where she had been visiting her cousin. It is another moment Valerie has been dreading, feeling irrationally guilty for cutting her mother’s visit short when she almost never gets out of Southbridge, and guiltier still for adding another tragic chapter to her already tragic life. Widowed twice over, Rosemary lost both husbands—Valerie’s father and the salesman who followed—to heart attacks.
Valerie’s father had been shoveling the driveway after a particularly large snowfall (stubbornly refusing to pay the teenaged boy next door for something he could do himself) when he collapsed. And although it was never confirmed, Valerie was pretty sure her mother’s second husband died while the two were having sex. During the funeral, Jason had leaned over to Valerie and opined about the number of Hail Marys it would require to pay for the sin of nonprocreative, lethal carnal relations.
It is one of the many things Valerie loves most about her brother—his ability to make her laugh in the unlikeliest of circumstances. Even now, he attempts casual one-liners, often at the expense of the more zealous or chatty nurses, and Valerie forces a smile as a way of thanking her brother for his effort, for always being there for her. She thinks of her earliest memory, the two of them in a red wagon, flying down the steep, grassy hill near their house, laughing so hard that they both wet their pants, the wagon filling with the warm liquid that they blamed on their next-door neighbor’s dachshund.
Years later, he would be the one to hold her hand at Charlie’s first ultrasound; and drive her to the hospital when her water broke; and take on night duty when she couldn’t stand it another second; and even support her through law school and studying for the bar exam, insisting again and again that she could do it, that he believed in her. He was her twin brother, best friend, and since the falling-out with Laurel, only real confidant.
So it is no surprise that he handles things now, too, bringing Valerie toiletries and clothing, phoning Charlie’s school and her boss at the law firm, explaining that she will need an indefinite leave of absence, and, just this morning, picking up their mother at Logan Airport. Valerie can hear him debriefing Rosemary, gently suggesting the right and wrong things to say. Not that it will do much good, for despite the best intentions, their mother has an uncanny knack for saying the exact wrong thing, especially to her daughter.
So it is no surprise that when Rosemary and Jason return from the airport and find Valerie in the cafeteria, staring into the distance with a fountain soda, an untouched burger, and full plate of crinkly fries before her, her mother’s first words are critical rather than comforting.
“I can’t believe a hospital serves such junk food,” she says to no one in particular. It is an understandable position after losing two husbands to heart disease, but Valerie is not in the mood to hear it now, especially when she has no intention of eating anything anyway. She pushes the red plastic tray away and stands to greet her mother.
“Hi, Mom. Thanks for coming,” she says, already feeling exhausted by the conversation they have not yet had.
“Val, honey,” Rosemary says. “There is no need to thank me for coming to see my only grandson.”
It is the way she always refers to Charlie—which Jason once joked is the saving grace of Valerie’s single motherhood. “Charlie might be a bastard,” he said, “but he’ll get to pass on the family name.”
Valerie laughed, thinking that she would not have tolerated that word from anyone else in the world. But Jason had a free pass, good for life. She could count on one hand the number of times he had angered her. Lately, the opposite seemed to be true of her mother. She initiates a reluctant hug with her now, one that Rosemary awkwardly reciprocates. The two women, with their willowy builds, are mirror images of one another, both self-contained and stiff.
Jason rolls his eyes, having recently posed the question of how two people who love each other could have such a hard time showing it. Valerie feels a wave of envy toward her brother, remembering the first time he brought a boyfriend (a handsome stockbroker named Levi) home to meet the family, and how taken aback she felt watching the two casually touch, hold hands, even, at one point, hug. Valerie’s surprise had nothing to do with her brother being gay, which she had known for years, maybe even before Jason knew it himself, but rather his ability to show such easy, natural affection.
She remembers Rosemary glancing away at such moments, seemingly in denial about the nature of their “friendship.” She had stoically accepted Jason’s news when he broke it to her (more stoically than she had received the news of Valerie’s pregnancy) but had not acknowledged it since, other than to offhandedly mention to Valerie that he sure didn’t seem gay, as if hoping there had been some sort of mix-up. Valerie had to admit this was true, that Jason did not hew to the usual stereotypes. He talked and walked like a straight man. He lived for the Red Sox and Patriots. He had little fashion sense, dressing almost exclusively in jeans and flannel shirts.
“But he is gay, Ma,” Valerie said, recognizing that part of love is acceptance—and that she wouldn’t change a thing about her brother, just as she wouldn’t change a thing about her son.
In any event, Valerie has feared her mother’s reaction to Charlie’s injury, anticipating either breezy denial, a stockpile of guilt, or endless if onlys.
She picks up her tray now, dumping the contents into a nearby wastebasket and leading her mother and brother to the cafeteria exit. By the time they’ve arrived at the elevator, Rosemary has asked her first loaded question. “I’m still a little hazy here . . . How in the world did this happen?”
Jason gives his mother an incredulous look, as Valerie sighs and says, “I don’t know, Ma. I wasn’t there—and I obviously haven’t talked to Charlie a
bout it yet.”
“What about the other little boys at the party? Or the parents? What did they tell you?” Rosemary asks, her angular face moving back and forth like an old-fashioned windup toy.
Valerie thinks of Romy, who has left her multiple voice mails and has been by the hospital twice, dropping off handmade cards from Grayson. Despite her desire to know every detail about that night, she cannot bring herself to see Romy, or even call her back. She is not ready to hear her excuses or apologies, and she is certain that she will never forgive. Valerie and her mother have this in common, too, Rosemary holding grudges more firmly than anyone she’s ever known.
“Well, let’s go see him,” Rosemary says, exhaling ominously.
Valerie nods, as they ride the elevator up two floors and then walk in silence to the end of the hall. As they approach Charlie’s room, Valerie hears her mother mumble, “I really wish you had called me straightaway.”
“I know, Ma . . . I’m sorry . . . I just wanted to get through those first hours . . . Besides, there was nothing to be done long-distance.”
“Prayer,” Rosemary says, lifting one eyebrow. “I could have prayed for him . . . What if, God forbid . . .” Her voice trails off, a wounded expression on her heavily lined face.
“I’m sorry, Ma,” Valerie says again, keeping silent tally of her apologies.
“Well, you’re here now,” Jason says, flashing Rosemary his most captivating smile. It is no family secret that Jason is her favorite child, his homosexuality notwithstanding.
“And you,” Rosemary says, giving Jason a once-over that he would later joke to Valerie looked like a search for signs of AIDS. “You’re way too thin, honey.”
Jason drapes one arm over Rosemary’s shoulder, further charming her. “Oh, come on, Ma,” he says. “Look at this face. You know I look good.”
Valerie considers his statement and feels herself tense. Not so much because Jason is talking about his handsome, unscarred face, but because of the glance he shoots her afterward. It is a look of worry, of sympathy, of realizing that he, too, just said the wrong thing. Valerie knows this look of pity well and feels an ache in her heart that her son will now come to know it, too.
The following morning, while Charlie is still dozing, Dr. Russo comes to examine his hand. Valerie can tell right away that something is wrong despite his impassive expression and slow, deliberate movements.
“What’s wrong?” she says. “Tell me.”
He shakes his head and says, “It’s not looking good. His hand. There’s too much swelling . . .”
“Does he need surgery?” Valerie asks, steeling herself for bad news.
Dr. Russo nods and says, “Yeah. I think we need to go in there and release the pressure.”
Valerie feels her throat constrict at the thought of what “going in there” entails until he says, “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine. We just need to release the pressure and do a graft on his hand.”
“A graft?” she says.
“A skin graft, yes.”
“From where?”
“His leg—the thigh area. Just a little strip of skin is all we’ll need . . . Then we’ll put it in a meshing machine and expand it—and secure it to his hand using a few surgical staples.”
She can feel herself wince as he continues, telling her the whole graft will be nourished by a process called plasmatic imbibition—which means that the graft literally drinks plasma, then grows new blood vessels into the transplanted skin.
“You make it sound easy,” she says.
“It is pretty easy,” he says, nodding. “I’ve done thousands.”
“So there’s no risk?” she asks, wondering if there’s a judgment call involved, whether she should seek a second opinion.
“Not really. The main concern is fluid accumulation under the graft,” he continues. “To prevent this from happening, we’ll mesh the graft with tiny rows of short, interrupted cuts.” He makes a small cutting motion in the air and continues. “Then, each row will be offset by half a cut-length, like bricks in a wall. In addition to allowing for drainage, this allows the graft to both stretch and cover a larger area . . . and more closely approximate the contours of the hand.”
She nods, feeling queasy but reassured by the precise science of it all. “I’ll also be using VAC therapy—Vacuum Assisted Closure—which does pretty much what it sounds like it does. I’ll place a section of foam over the wound, then lay a perforated tube onto the foam, securing it with bandages. A vacuum unit then creates negative pressure, sealing the edges of the wound to the foam, and drawing out excess blood and fluids. This process helps to maintain cleanliness in the graft site, minimizes the risk of infection, and promotes the development of new skin while removing fluid and keeping the graft in place.”
“Okay,” she says, taking it all in.
“Sound good?” he asks.
“Yes,” she says, thinking she does not want a second opinion, that she trusts him completely. “And then what?”
“We’ll keep his hand immobilized in a splint for four or five days, then continue therapy and work on function.”
“So . . . you think he’ll be able to use it again?”
“His hand? Absolutely. I’m very optimistic. You should be, too.”
She looks at Dr. Russo, wondering if he can tell that optimism has never been her go-to emotion.
“Okay,” she says, resolving to change that.
“Are you ready?” he asks.
“You’re going to do the surgery now?” she asks nervously.
“If you’re ready,” he says.
“Yes,” she tells him. “I’m ready.”
7
Tessa
The accident seems to be all anyone can talk about—at least among the stay-at-home mothers in town, the ranks of whom I’m slowly infiltrating. The subject arises at Frank’s playgroup, Ruby’s ballet class, on the tennis courts, even in the grocery store. Sometimes the women know of Nick’s connection to the boy, openly giving their condolences to pass along. Sometimes they have no clue, relaying the story as if it were the first time I’d heard it, exaggerating the injuries in ways I’d discuss with Nick later. And sometimes, in the most annoying instances, they know, but pretend not to, transparently hoping that I will divulge some inside information.
In almost all cases, they speak in hushed voices with grave expressions, as if, on some level, relishing the drama. “Emotional rubbernecking,” Nick calls it, disdainful of anything smacking of gossip. “Don’t these women have anything better to do with their time?” he asks when I report happenings on the grapevine, a sentiment I tend to agree with, even when I am a guilty participant in the chatter, speculation, and analysis.
Even more striking to me, though, is the distinct sense that most of the women seem to identify more with Romy than the little boy’s mother, saying things like, “She shouldn’t be so hard on herself. It could happen to anyone.” At which point, I nod and murmur my agreement, both because I don’t want to make waves and because, in theory, I believe it’s true—it could happen to anyone.
But the more I hear talk of how poor Romy hasn’t slept or eaten for days, and what happened in her backyard wasn’t really her fault, the more I begin to think that it is her fault—and that she and Daniel are to blame. I mean, for chrissake, who lets a bunch of six-year-old boys play with fire? And if you are responsible for such an egregious lapse of judgment and plain common sense, well, I’m sorry, you probably should feel guilty.
Of course I downplay these feelings to April, who has become understandably obsessed with Romy’s emotional (and potential legal and financial) plight, sharing all the details with me in the way that close friends always share details about other close friends. I do my best to be sympathetic, but one afternoon, when I meet April for lunch at a little bistro in Westwood, I can feel myself losing patience when she starts in with an indignant tone. “Valerie Anderson still refuses to speak to Romy,” she says, seconds after our lunch arrives.
>
I look down at my salad as I smother it with blue cheese dressing which, I realize, defeats the point of ordering the salad—and certainly of ordering dressing on the side.
April continues, her tone becoming more impassioned. “Romy’s been by the hospital with artwork from Grayson. She’s also sent Valerie several e-mails and left her a couple of messages.”
“And?”
“And nothing back. Absolute stone-cold silence.”
“Hmm,” I say, poking a crouton with my fork.
She takes a dainty bite of her own salad, tossed with fat-free balsamic, then chases it with a liberal gulp of chardonnay. Liquid lunches are April’s favorites—the salad an afterthought. “Don’t you think that’s rude?” she finishes.
“Rude?” I repeat, gazing back at her.
“Yes,” April says emphatically. “Rude.”
Choosing my words carefully, I say, “I don’t know. I suppose so . . . But . . . at the same time . . .”
April absentmindedly reaches up to shift her long ponytail from one shoulder to the other. Her looks, I have always thought, do not match her true personality. Her curly auburn hair, combined with her smattering of freckles, perky nose, and athletic build, conjure a laid-back, outdoorsy type—a former field-hockey player turned go-with-the-flow soccer mom. When, in fact, she is as uptight and indoorsy as they come—her idea of camping is a four-(rather than five-)star hotel; and to her, ski trips are about fur coats and fondue.
“But at the same time, what?” she asks, pressing me to put into words what I’d rather leave to implication.
“But her son’s in the hospital,” I say bluntly.
“I know that,” April says, giving me a blank stare.
“Well, then?” I make a gesture that would be captioned, Well, then, what is your point?
“Okay,” April says. “I’m not saying Valerie should be all buddy-buddy with Romy or anything . . . but would it kill her to return a simple phone call?”